


Counting Crows

by Zelos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Parenting, Canon Compliant, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 06:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14255409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: “Stiles,” Noah interrupted wearily, “is there any chance I can feel like the actual dad in this exchange?”A tribute to the parents of Beacon Hills, their relationships with their children, and how they became the parents they are.





	Counting Crows

**Author's Note:**

> This is a “post-canon” and entirely canon-compliant fic, but the exact time of the scene depends on when the child “exits” the show (e.g. Allison died after season three, Stiles left at the beginning of season six, etc).

**One for sorrow.**

 

“I’d like to cancel my daughter’s appointment next week.” Chris’ voice was very calm, very steady, not even the slightest tremble in the words. “It’s on Saturday. Allison Argent.”

“One sec, I’ll look up—yes, I have her for 9:30. I’ll cancel that straight—” A baby’s wail pierced the speaker; Chris winced. A fumble, a clatter, and then the receptionist returned, a little breathless, a lot frazzled: “I’m so sorry—do you want to book another appointment for Allison?”

A long beat of silence, gossamer thin. A skipped beat in his chest, constricted grief. Chris’ fingers tightened on his phone, on the sea of cardboard boxes surrounding him.

“Mr Argent?”

“You must not watch the news,” he said finally, his voice still so level, just the barest hint of gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry?”

Chris took a deep breath. “No, I don’t need to make another appointment.” He hung up without waiting for the receptionist’s reply. He set the phone down carefully on the table, beside the box he was filling; small box, big box, one, two, _three_.

_I’ve dealt with this before._

He was not a stranger to boxing up his life: the constant moves, the firearms shipments, friends and family KIA. Allison had helped him box up Kate and Gerard’s things: the huntress, his partner, his equal. The Argent matriarch.

In retrospect, he had not been much of a father.

In further retrospect, he hadn’t much in the way of examples. His own father built a war on lies and treated his children as tools. His sister, carefully crafted into a monster—the one Chris could not save, because he had never known to try.

Victoria and Chris had often trained Allison together. Hunting was as much the emotional aspect as the substantive skill, mental fortitude and physical strength. Compartmentalize everything: the mission, the fallen, the pain.

“When you suture a body wound, use nylon. Widen circular wounds so you can close them in a line. Always use individual stitches; if one portion fails, the others will still hold.” Allison’s hands trembled as she threaded the needle. “Never do things twice if you only have to do them once.”

He hissed through his teeth when Allison applied the antiseptic; Allison immediately flinched. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I—”

“Keep going,” Victoria ordered on Allison’s other side. “Pain is a reminder that you’ve made a mistake. Don’t ever repeat your mistakes.”

Allison did not look at either of them, mouth tight and fighting back tears.

Chris ground his teeth. Isopropyl alcohol hurt like a motherfucker. “How do we approach a situation like this, Allison?”

A shaky breath. “Clinically.”

“And?” Victoria prompted.

“And unemotionally.”

“Good. Do it. Put it in, pull it out.” Victoria did not brace either Chris or Allison. Never set a bad example or precedent. “In, out.”

Allison’s hands hovered, then steadied over the gash in Chris’ arm. “In, out.”

Chris has made many mistakes. Despite his lessons, he has _repeated_ many of those mistakes. Other mistakes he would not get to repeat ever, ever again.

Chris did not ask Allison to help box up her mother’s things. That failing was for him alone. And he has no one to help him with boxing up Allison’s things. His decision, his responsibility.

There were three bouquets of flowers on the dining table. Chris would bring them to the cemetery later, to set them at the graves: Kate, Victoria, Allison. He would pretend to not see the pink pen carefully marking Allison’s final resting place.

He has been to _so many_ funerals.

 

**Two for mirth.**

 

Noshiko’s voice could freeze a hellhound solid. “What is this?”

Liam Dunbar flinched where he stood, plastic bag— _plastic bag!_ —clenched tight in one fist. He barely, barely mustered up enough courage to look at them in the eyes. Times like this Ken could understand why Noshiko had, in one of her less charitable moments, nicknamed Liam “Chibi-chan”.

At the moment, Ken was not feeling very charitable.

“I broke Kira’s sword.” The words were halting and small; Liam held out the bag. “I’m here to return the pieces.”

Noshiko’s expression darkened into something thunderous. Ken intercepted the bag before she incinerated Liam on the spot. “You let Theo out. And then?”

“He wasn’t going to help unless we offered him something too. This—” Liam gestured awkwardly at the bag “—was our offer.”

“And did he?”

“What?”

Ken shook the bag. Inside, metal clinked. “Help.”

Liam looked down at his feet. “At the time? Not really. Afterward…sort of. I gambled.”

“Did you win?”

“We—” Liam’s fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t know.”

Ken opened the bag and shook out the pieces, arranging them into order: grip, guard, blade, point. Liam watched in silence, heartbreak and awe written on his face.

Kira sold her freedom to the Skinwalkers for this blade, for her friends, for a chance to vanquish the Beast. A leap of faith. Had the blade even been strictly necessary for her part in the play? Ken was pretty sure the answer was no. The sword had been a conduit for her spirit, a gateway to the fox. If she’d had the time and space to master the fox…

If.

“You chased the Ghost Riders away.” Ken tried for an evenness he didn’t quite feel. “That’s a win.”

Liam’s expression crumpled; his eyes darted between the two. “You’re not mad?”

Noshiko’s lips thinned; she looked away, neither confirmation nor denial. Ken managed a smile. “Not really. No.” The lie rolled off smoothly, practiced as a rehearsal. He was not a saint. “Margaret Shepard said ‘sometimes the only transportation available is a leap of faith’. You all were Kira’s. This was yours.”

Liam gave him a long, wide-eyed stare, the same one Kira always had when she rolled her eyes with _Oh god_ and _Dad, no_ and _I am going to scream_.

Not all parents loved to embarrass their child, but Ken took a special joy in it. He’d known for a long, long time that Noshiko—and later on, Kira—would outlive him by far. Being embarrassed by her extremely lame, very uncool parents (or, well, parent) was some normalcy he could give Kira for the short amount of time they had together.

He’d known their time was shorter than most, the innocent levity measured in truths, not lifespans, quickly shattered when her powers evolved. But he thought he’d have longer than _this_.

Ken smiled again, a little more convincingly. The lines in Liam’s face slackened.

A leap of faith. Rhys had been one. Ken himself had been one. Scott and his pack had been Kira’s. For all the longevity of her lifetime, all the time she could have to repair any damage, Noshiko was not big on faith. Kira was, because she hadn’t seen it fail. Ken wouldn’t be the one to prove her a fool.

“I’m so sorry,” Liam whispered.

“So are we.”

 

**Three for a funeral.**

 

“—and for the love of all you find holy _change your passwords_ , I cracked them with a literal hand tied behind my back, imagine what someone like Danny could—”

“Stiles,” Noah interrupted wearily, “is there any chance I can feel like the actual dad in this exchange?”

Stiles cocked his head. “You are my dad, that’s why I have to take care of you.”

“You’re not supposed to take care of me,” but the words contained more exasperation than heat. “I’m the dad, you’re the son. _I_ take care of _you._ ”

Stiles stared at him unblinkingly, eyes a little too bright. There was a longer silence than was comfortable.

“Wasn’t that way after Mom died,” Stiles finally said very quietly.

Noah recoiled like he’d been slapped. The air froze between them. There were two spots of colour high on Stiles’ cheeks, mirroring the heat in Noah’s face.

Noah took a deep breath, let it out. “I guess I deserved that.”

Stiles roughly scrubbed at his face. “I didn’t—I mean—it was hard, okay? After Mom died. I get it. I’m not—I’m not saying—”

“Stiles, stop.” He didn’t have to say it. Rafael McCall’s departure had been a very clear cautionary tale of what might’ve happened if Noah had sank a little longer into his grief.

Professional courtesy went a long way when you were generally well-liked by your men. None of his deputies had talked to him about sleeping in the office, eyes unfocused and bloodshot the next day. None of his deputies had talked to him about driving in with a hangover, of what a breathalyzer would’ve said. They should have. Noah was a goddamn hypocrite to the highest degree.

The McCall divorce had been Rafael’s rock bottom, but it’d sobered up Noah too. But by then, the damage had been done. He remembered the way Claudia looked at Stiles in her last days. He remembered how Stiles looked at, and looked _to_ , him during the worst moments, those heartbreaking months.

Sometimes things fell through the cracks when you were drowning in a bottle. Stiles has merrily trampled on anything remotely resembling a boundary ever since. Noah has never been able to get him to stop, even after he pulled himself together. Some days he wasn’t sure he wanted Stiles to.

“I can’t _lose_ you,” Stiles said softly, achingly honest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Noah answered, more than a little plaintive; Stiles’ smile cracked in the corners, which both of them pointedly ignored.

“And you’re right in the goddamn middle of Beacon Hills, a _beacon_ for—”

“Hey. Stiles.” The supernatural was, and was not, the point.

An agitated slash of a hand. “Just—promise me. No more booze in the house, okay?”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “You say that like _you_ _’re_ not going to parties? Like _you_ haven’t been dipping into my whiskey?” They still kept whiskey around the house nowadays. It’d taken Stiles a long time to stop looking for empty bottles and glass slivers on the floor.

Stiles gritted his teeth. “I can’t _watch_ you.”

“You’re heading off for an internship, not inevitable death,” Noah pointed out. He’d exchanged a few _words_ with Rafael before he signed the paperwork.

“Dad.”

“It’s _different._ ”

“ _Dad._ ”

“Okay, okay.” Noah sighed, long and slow. “I promise.”

Stiles cracked a tremulous smile. They stared at each other for a moment until Stiles shook himself and returned to the checklist of things Noah could not possibly take care of, which began and ended with Noah himself. “Oh, and stop blowing off your physicals, you know about your cholesterol levels—”

“Stiles.”

“And—” Stiles whirled around as the door creaked open “— _you_ , make sure he actually _eats_ , and don’t let him eat Burger King every day, they’re not even _good_ burgers—”

Noah narrowed his eyes. “Deputy, you will do nothing of the sort.”

Parrish looked between the two of them, dropped a stack of files onto Noah’s desk, and backed out of the office, hands raised. “I gotta go collect witness testimony. Drive safe, Stiles.” A nod. “Sheriff.”

“Hey,” Stiles hollered as Parrish closed the door, “you’re still on _desk duty!_ ”

“Stiles, shut up,” and Noah pulled his son into a very tight hug.

Stiles stiffened briefly then returned the embrace. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.” It was muffled by Noah’s shoulder.

“Take as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.” Noah took a breath that he wished didn’t shake. “You’ve always got me.”

 

**Four for a birth.**

 

Thirteen and a half pounds (coyote children were denser than their human counterparts). Dark eyes and a scream fit to wake the dead. A hazy memory of a tiny face, awash with blood. How did Corinne ever get by without her healing?

“Easy there. Childbirth takes a lot out of you.” A human nurse had fussed over her—Corinne’d been so weakened by the child leaching away her powers that she’d had to go to a _human_ hospital. It was insulting and infuriating, being this helpless.

“It probably won’t last,” Talia had told her. “My wolf powers had weakened during pregnancy too. It’s the creation of a born wolf—or coyote, in your case. It’ll come back once the child’s born.” She’d smiled, dreamy and soft. “And even if it doesn’t, is it really so bad?”

Talia had watched Corinne very carefully during the full moons, lest she aborted the fetus. And Corinne had considered it, several times. But the more her power leached away the less confident she was at surviving the trauma. If she’d disrupted the cycle before gestation there was no guarantee she’d get her powers back either. Death was a guarantee; life, not so much. Nine months was a small price to pay.

At the time, Corinne had thought Talia wanted the child—who was technically a Hale—for her pack. She could have the runt; no use making an enemy out of Talia Hale for a pound of flesh.

Now, Corinne knew better. Talia had wanted to eliminate _competition_.

Coyotes passed their power down to their offspring. Talia called it beautiful. Corinne called it theft. And then theft became all the more literal when Talia stole her _child_ , too.

Years later, she heard Talia died in a fire. Good. Corinne hope it had hurt. Burn bright, bitch.

It’d taken years for Corinne to discretely track down the Tates. Talia had handled the adoption (whatever happened to the runt as pack?), and Corinne had no desire to face down the Hale matriarch with a fraction of her previous powers. Then Talia had gone and died, taking her secrets with her to her fiery, agonizing grave.

Eight years. It’d taken her eight years, almost nine, to find out Malia Tate/Hale was alive, and only because the news was running some puff piece praising Beacon Hill’s sheriff department: _eight-years-lost girl returned home_. Eight years of packing hot lead and cold steel, to kill at a distance rather than life dripping from her claws. Eight years of missing the forest floor beneath her paws, of eyesight like a bad TV, of being laid up by the smallest of broken bones.

Even still, Corinne relied on no one. The Desert Wolf remained a legend, a force to be feared—and if she’d turned squishier, well, no one got close enough to try it out. Coyotes could form packs like wolves, but they worked best alone—unlike omega wolves who’d barely last a year, coyotes were survivors. Through fire and ice and hell and back, they survived—and when they circled back for revenge, no one ever, ever saw them coming.

Corinne may carry all the frailties of human flesh, but she was still, one hundred percent, _coyote._

Malia looked nothing like her or Peter, but she was theirs down to the pore: every swagger, every threat. If her own powers didn’t hang in the balance Corinne maybe, almost, might have wanted to keep her.

 _I_ _’m going to kill you_. Candid, fierce, less threat than promise. Corinne couldn’t have said it better herself.

Despite her attitude, her heritage, Corinne never considered Malia coyote. She was raised by humans, adopted by wolves. She had a pack. She had an alpha _wolf_. She was every perversion and bastardization imaginable of a coyote, and more besides. Coyotes worked best _alone_.

And yet, when Malia dug her stolen talons into Corinne to drain the life from her eyes, she was one hundred percent coyote.

Malia Tate was very much her daughter. And coyotes ate their own.

 

**Five for silver.**

 

Melissa surveyed the suitcases with some amusement. “You know, you can leave a few things behind for me to remember you by.” She nudged the nearest bag with her foot. “What do you have in here, bricks?”

“Uh, chains.” At Melissa’s look, Scott winced. “I mean, new environment, the stress, I don’t have my pack…I know Liam’s control issues had extenuating circumstances, but better safe than sorry.”

Melissa nodded. “Your dad’s meeting you there?”

“Yeah. Dinner, showing me around. Said he knows a few places where I could hole up for the full moon too, if I need them.” Scott peered at her uncertainly. “Are you, um…”

Melissa sat down beside him; the bed shifted with her weight. “I never told him to get out of your life, Scott.”

Scott gave her a long, dubious look. “You thought it.”

Melissa blanched. “I thought you didn’t—”

“I didn’t remember the stairs,” Scott’s mouth twisted unhappily, “but I remember the fights. The not coming home. You crying all the time.”

“People change.” It came out thick. She hadn’t prepared for a conversation like this. How was she stuck defending Raf?

“When they want, yeah.” Scott hunched into himself, fingers laced.

Tile was cheaper to repair than hardwood, but the kitchen tiles were also more forgiving of impacts than the hardwood floors: thrown bottles, dropped bowls, a drunk tripping over his own feet when he deigned to return home. Not all impacts left marks, but all of them left scars.

She was a _trauma nurse_ , for the love of god, and somehow, somehow…she’d never thought it would be her. Letting Raf cross line after line, too afraid to _act_. She drew the line at the first and only time it’d been _Scott_ , but oh, she’d failed to protect Scott from the hundreds and thousands of smaller, lesser hurts before.

She kicked a proverbial monster out of the house. What cosmic irony, then, when her son turned into a literal monster in front of her eyes.

Melissa took a deep, shaky breath; something splintered in her chest. “He did want to.” That came out a little steadier. “ _They_ did want to. How many of your friends were your enemies before?”

This time, Scott smiled. “True.” A halfhearted shrug. “He took it pretty well, all things considered.”

To his credit, Raf had not reached for, or even _asked for_ , a drink when Scott told him about the supernatural. If there was one moment Melissa could have excused breaking sobriety for, that would’ve been it.

Raf was very good at his job— _jobs_ , being a father was his job too—when he wanted to be. He did get better. She’d give him that much.

Melissa squeezed Scott’s hands. “I am so proud of you. You’re a hero, you know.” The hero she couldn’t be. The one who didn’t lose himself to the anger and aggression of others, nor to the violence and rage inside himself.

Scott’s smile turned a little sadder. “I don’t feel like one. I never actually know what I’m doing. I just feel like…a kid.”

“Good. Don’t get the glory get to your head, kiddo.” She nudged him with her elbow; he grinned back, and the tension broke. “Let’s get these in the car?”

“Yeah.” They rose to their feet. Melissa grabbed one suitcase; Scott grabbed five.

As they shoved the last suitcases into Roscoe, Scott looked back at her, smile a little wistful. “Are you absolutely sure you’re going to be okay?”

“What’re you going to do, become my shadow until I die?”

Scott shrugged, but he was laughing. “If that’s what it takes.”

Melissa brandished her stun baton with much more flourish than was necessary. “Somebody once told me this thing is a few watts from a lightsabre. Besides, not all of your friends are leaving. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Argent. _Silver_. It wasn’t the reason she eventually fell for Chris, but it was the reason she sought him out. She would never be a hero like Scott, but she was tired of being a coward, too.

They say leaders inspired. Melissa doubted she’d ever find another person who inspired her like Scott.

“I love you.” She hugged him again, pressed a kiss into his hair. “Go save the world.”

 

**Six for gold.**

 

“What are we going to do with the trophies?”

David set down the box he’d been holding, joining his wife by the oversized trophy cabinet. A running catalogue of Jackson’s accomplishments winked at them from behind closed glass, gleaming gold and chrome. Jackson had arranged them by categories: academics on one side, sports on the other. The most recent addition to the sports side was the lacrosse team photo from Jackson’s freshman year, just before he was crowned MVP at the state championship.

Jackson would not get another 4.0 GPA award this year. Given recent events, David would be surprised if he managed a 2.5.

Sarah glanced at David, then back at Jackson’s bedroom. The door was open. David could hear the occasional grunt and curse as Jackson boxed up his life. Mostly it was silent.

It was the silence that worried him.

“Bring them,” David said finally.

Sarah frowned. “There’s no room in the apartment.”

“Keep the boxes in my office. I won’t be there for a few months anyway.” Too many things to wrap up at the firm. “We can look for a bigger place once I get there.”

Sarah smiled; it wavered a little. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

“You always said you loved London. And hey, half the state won’t be on fire every year.”

“A lot of rain though.”

“We’ll find you another beach, don’t worry.” He kissed her; she smiled against his mouth, then straightened.

“I gotta get going. I’m bringing his Porsche to the dealer by—” she broke off. “What is it, Jackson?”

David turned. Their son had crept up behind them. It was unnerving, how utterly silent he was nowadays.

“You’re bringing these?” Bruised eyes blinked at the trophy cabinet. Jackson’s voice sounded strangely flat. Everything about him seemed strangely flat nowadays. The last time he had even a hint of his usual ardour was when he had talked—demanded, really—David into dropping the lawsuit against the hospital and the restraining order against Stilinski’s son.

“Yeah,” Sarah said as David added, “if you want.”

Jackson cocked his head. “If I want?”

David and Sarah looked at each other. “You worked so hard for these. They won’t mean much to anyone else, but they’re priceless to you. Why wouldn’t we bring them?”

Jackson stared at them, then back at the trophies. For a brief, fleeting moment, he looked like he was near tears.

David and Sarah exchanged a second, more alarmed, glance. Both crossed the living room toward their son. “Jackson?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” He was lying—badly, at that. But long experience had proved that Jackson would only share when he was ready.

Jackson swallowed, then strode up to the cabinet, snatching up a cardboard box on the way. “I’m just going to pack these up.” He started dropping pieces haphazardly into the box, the trophies clanking loudly as they landed.

The last time Danny had gotten fingerprints on his championship trophy, Jackson didn’t speak to his best friend for a week.

David sighed. “Son, you’re going to break them that way.” He headed to the kitchen, returning with an armful of bubble wrap. “At least wrap them up.”

Sarah hesitated on Jackson’s other side. “Hon…”

“It’s okay,” David said as he wrapped up a plaque. “We’ve got this. Go to your appointment.” Jackson did not comment.

There’d always been a wall between them since the day David and Sarah sat him down, eleven-some years ago. Parents dreaded the sex talk, the drug talk, the what’re-you-doing-with-your-life talk. But no talk since had been anywhere near as bad as the adoption talk. Jackson hadn’t even thrown a tantrum. That was the worst part—he went _quiet_. And he’d been quiet _with them_ ever since.

Maybe they’d been too permissive, but no one could say Jackson was _bad_. A little rambunctious, a little obnoxious, maybe even a lot arrogant, but at the end of the day, he was _accomplished_. He didn’t cause _trouble_. The golden boy, the good kid. They didn’t _need_ to restrict his freedom. The Porsche, the credit card, the lack of curfew, the girlfriend staying over, no questions asked… David and Sarah couldn’t buy Jackson’s love, but they could at least not earn his spite.

“Okay.” Sarah kissed Jackson’s cheek. “See you later. Love you.”

Jackson didn’t say it back. Of course he didn’t.

 

**Seven for a secret, never to be told.**

 

“Mark the plot thirty-six by eighty-six inches, roughly three by seven feet.” Tom pointed at the white aerosol lines he’d made earlier that morning. “Measure twice, dig once. Don’t fuck it up.”

“And six feet deep, right? Why is it six feet, anyway?”

Tom swung to look at his son, who shrank back. A beat passed, two, three. Isaac relaxed. Tom grunted, once.

“Less of an issue now, with typical modern burials—chemicals, metal casket, cement vault. When you’re not doing it by the books—body not embalmed, no vault, shitty casket or none at all…the depth gives some safety and peace of mind. Otherwise given a few years of weathering and soil erosion, the bones of the dearly departed could unexpectedly visit the living.” He grinned, or maybe it was sneered.

Isaac chewed his lip. “How do I know if it’s deep enough?”

Tom gave him a look. “Measure it, dumbass.”

Isaac looked back at him blankly; Tom cursed under his breath and cuffed him on the head.

“The arm’s dig depth is about fourteen feet. Half that is seven. Bucket’s another two. If you really need to, get out of the hoe and get a tape measure. Or use your thumb. Look out one eye, then the other, multiply displacement by ten.” A lifetime teaching shop class did impart the ability to explain concepts for those who weren’t too obstinate to listen. “Take a step back before you start, after you’re done. You miss details when you’re too close.”

Isaac stepped back from the plot and stared down at the marked ground where a hole was supposed to be. He slumped slightly like he didn’t know what he was looking at, then turned to look at the backhoe. “Does it, I dunno, bother you? You used to have a day job. Now you’re just—”

“Now I’m just _what?_ ” Tom interrupted, voice hard.

Isaac flinched. “I didn’t mean—”

“What?” Tom grabbed Isaac by the shoulders and spun him around. “ _What?_ ”

“Dad—don’t—” Isaac flailed uselessly with those thin arms, the pointy elbows.

“Say it!” Tom shook him; Isaac’s teeth chattered. “ _Say it to my face!_ ”

“Digging holes in the dirt!” He yelped it more than said it, high and shrill like a kicked puppy.

Tom shoved his son back. Isaac stumbled into the waiting backhoe, eyes wide. They stared at each other for a long, frozen moment.

“Everyone dies,” Tom finally snapped, something guttural in the words. “Princes, kings, don’t matter. We all die in a hole.”

Death was the greatest equalizer. Didn’t matter what you did before. Couldn’t take anything with you after—not money, wealth, fame, honour, that fucking gold star in the window.

Just you, and a hole in the dirt.

Isaac was still staring at him, arms raised, for all the good that did him. Kid was like a goddamn toothpick, could snap him like a twig. Nothing like his brother. Camden had been strong, and tough, a man’s man through and through.

Camden was in a very nice box 6.43 feet in the ground.

For all his strengths, for all his toughness, Camden hadn’t been _enough_. They said that some blonde twinkie had cleared the bombs…by setting them off. Camden came back in pieces, not even a whole body to bury. Fucking twinkie? Walked away, soot on his face. How the fuck that happened, no one knew. The dead took their secrets to the grave.

He’d been too soft on Camden, had been the problem. Kid didn’t toughen up until basic. Isaac would do better. Isaac would _be_ better. Discipline. Honour. Respect.

If Camden hadn’t been enough, Isaac would be.

Isaac was still staring. Tom backhanded him across the mouth. “What’re you waiting around for, an invitation? Get digging!”

With a muffled sniff (at least he wasn’t _crying_ ), Isaac scrambled to the backhoe and turned it on. Tom stepped back, mouth thin, and watched Isaac dig.

Sixteen feet away, the most meticulously-maintained grave in the history of Beacon Hills Cemetery was watching too.

_Be all you can be._

**Author's Note:**

> I omitted several parents because of the shortness of the rhyme (and I couldn’t make the others fit even if I had extended the rhyme to its full count of thirteen). As usual, endless thanks (and hate) to Nyxelestia for helping me with this.
> 
> Whether Corinne’s bitterness at Malia stemmed from her own decision or being misinformed by Talia is very open to interpretation. My reading is Talia misinformed Corinne, as I figured Corinne would have attempted to terminate her pregnancy otherwise.
> 
> It’s entirely possible, probably even likely, that Rafael’s drunken violence was not limited to accidentally throwing Scott down the stairs. However, given Melissa’s willingness to sit in a car with Raf, and Scott not mentioning/remembering other acts of physical violence, my interpretation is that that was Raf’s only act of outright domestic violence…but anyone who gets drunk enough to throw someone down the stairs, accident or no, is probably a very mean and angry drunk anyway. I have a lot of problems with Melissa treating Scott like a hero rather than a son in the latter half of the show, so this was my interpretation of why.


End file.
